


5 times Len saw Barry cry & 1 time when the tables turned

by Liu



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Angst, Barry crying, Gen, M/M, One-Sided Relationship, Pining, Possibly Unrequited Love, Unrequited Love, missed opportunitites, unfulfilled love more like
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-25
Updated: 2016-01-25
Packaged: 2018-05-16 06:27:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5817583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liu/pseuds/Liu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>tumblr prompt fill for "Reacting to the other one crying about something".</p>
            </blockquote>





	5 times Len saw Barry cry & 1 time when the tables turned

**Author's Note:**

> Anon requested "Reacting to the other one crying about something" for coldflash, so this is what happened :) it turned longer than expected so I'm posting it as a separate fic.

The first time Len sees Barry cry, it’s a funeral. As such, the occasion isn’t particularly surprising in terms of open displays of grief, but it still sits like a lead weight in Len’s stomach, to see tears spill so freely down Barry’s cheeks. There’s not much he can say or do - after all, even in the world of metahumans and superpowers, death is still (mostly) unpleasantly final.

He sidles closer and the back of his hand bumps against Barry’s knuckles, curled tight into a fist. He’s shaking; the Flash, the hero of the whole city, the savior of thousands, and here he is, looking so young and helpless and _broken_. Len turns his eyes to the coffin and resolutely doesn’t think about it when he wraps his fingers around Barry’s clenched fist. Slowly, it uncurls, fingers twining, and Len lets Barry squeeze his hand as hard as he can.

…

The second time, it takes Len by surprise. He’s trying to navigate the suburban maze of streets that look pretty much the same to get to the meeting point on time: while time-travel is fun, he doesn’t particularly like the thought of being left stranded just months before 9/11. Security had been crazy for a long while afterwards and that would mean no fun and no paycheck of Len’s favorite kind.

What he doesn’t count with is a familiar flash of lightning on the periphery of his vision: he automatically steers his bike towards it, before his brain can even process that there is no way Barry’s here, years and years before he became the Flash.

Len stops the bike nonetheless; there’s no scarlet speedster on this street, no more flashes of lightning… but there _is_ a little boy, tugging at his pajamas and looking around with wide eyes that are getting a bit too shiny under the yellow glow of the streetlights.

  
“Hey, kid,” he says, and he can see the boy take a step back. The kid must be smart, brought up not to trust random strangers, so Len raises his hands slowly in a placating gesture.

  
“Can you call the police, please?” the boy sniffles, like he’s trying hard not to cry and Len raises an eyebrow. While he’s significantly older than his 2001 self, he would still likely be recognized by any self-respecting cop, especially considering that they’re in Central City.

  
“It’s… my mom,” the boy continues in that high-pitched, choked voice that suggests he’s a lot closer to tears than he would like to be, “there was… this light, and…”

He breaks then, big tears rolling down his cheeks as he furiously wipes at his face with the sleeve of his pajama. Len watches him with a dawning sense of dread: it can’t be. It _can’t_. But then, how many boys have had their mothers killed by mysterious indoor lightning? Len’s heard the story, and he should get going or Hunter’s going to leave him here for real, but he can’t bring himself to leave Barry alone in the middle of a deserted street at night, barefoot and shivering and upset.

So he walks to the boy (who is crying too hard to be wary of him anymore) and crouches down, pulling him into a one-armed hug. Barry’s tiny in his embrace, clutching at Len’s jacket with trembling, bony hands, but he curls into the touch like he _trusts_ Len not to hurt him. Len sighs and pulls his 2001 phone out of his pocket, glad that he’d insisted on having timeline-appropriate means of communication when possible.

  
“I’m gonna call the police, and then I’m going to wait with you until they get here, okay?” he says, trying to remember how to sound soothing, and dials 911. After a brief conversation he is being assured that a squad car is on its way and then he pockets his phone again, hugging the shivering kid closer to his chest. He’s not sure if it’s more shock or the temperature outside: it’s not exactly cold, but the kid’s not even wearing any shoes (Len decides that getting irritated at that tiny detail when Barry’s mother is dying would be petty – but it does make him look around and wonder if any of these houses belongs to the Allen family, if he could, by any chance— but he’s expressly forbidden from changing history, and he’s selfish enough not to want to change _Barry_ ’s past just because it might mean their futures never cross).

It doesn’t take long for the sound of sirens to echo in the distance, and Len can’t linger any longer. He lets go of the kid, only then realizing how tightly he was holding on, and Barry pulls back with a loud sniff.

  
“I have to go,” Len says, and surprises himself with how apologetic he sounds. It’s not like Barry will be alone for more than a minute or two now, he’s certainly big enough to handle that, but Len’s heart still feels like it’s being stretched too thin when he straddles his bike and leaves the quietly sobbing kid behind.

…

The third time, Barry’s eyes water because of pain. Len can see him gritting his teeth not to cry out, but having several of his bones re-grow and his damaged, burned and/or torn muscles regrow and right themselves can’t be pleasant. Barry’s been quiet, but Len overheard Dr. Snow saying that his metabolism basically renders any and all painkillers useless, and he feels for the guy, really. Len himself has had to bear the pain of a nasty injury without any pills more often than not, but that doesn’t mean he’s a fan.

He sits by Barry’s bedside and gives him all the embellished, lengthy tales of any robbery Len’s ever been a part of: predictably, Barry sometimes unclenches his jaw just enough to snap something about Len’s morals or life goals, and Len chuckles every time. There’s not much he can do except pretend he doesn’t see Barry’s tears and try to provide distraction, so he latches on to both of those tasks and launches into another ridiculous (but 100% true) story.

…

The fourth time, Len’s laughing. He’s been in severe need of some down time, the time-travel adventures taking its toll on his body more than he’d like to admit; and watching a movie with his (former) nemesis seemed like as good a way to relax as any. There’s plenty of food, in any case: not that Barry has any trouble polishing off whatever the rest of the team leaves untouched (or unguarded for long enough – Len’s learned his lesson a couple years back when he’s been saving the best bits for last and ended up with a plate full of lightning and devoid of everything in a blink of an eye).

Then the dog dies on-screen, and there’s a choked noise next to him. Len turns his head to catch the Hero of Central City bawling like a baby, his hazel eyes plastered to the screen. Len presses his knee to Barry’s in silent comfort, but can’t help the chuckles: it’s half amusement and half wonder how someone can see as much shit as Barry’s been through and still mourn a fictional pet. But that’s Barry Allen for you – kind-hearted to a fault and so good and sweet that Len’s teeth used to ache just thinking of him. He doesn’t even mind when he’s accused of being a sadist as he smiles at the TV while everyone’s sad about the fate of that poor animal; and his protests when Barry reaches over to steal the last slice of pizza from Len’s plate are token at best.

…

The fifth time, Len’s not even supposed to be there. They were in the middle of arguing the finer points of the upcoming plan to thwart Savage’s evil schemes when the call came, and Len doesn’t even know how he ends up sitting in a hospital chair, staring at the clock and listening to Barry’s furious pacing.

But he never even considers leaving.

It’s nearly morning when the nurse comes out and announces it’s a boy – they’re all close to falling asleep in their chairs by then, except for Barry who’s still pacing relentlessly. But when he hears the news, he stops in his tracks and his eyes go wide and shiny, and he looks at Len, who’s closest, with this look of absolute wonder in his face.

  
“I’m an uncle,” he whispers, and breaks out into the brightest grin Len’s even seen on the kid’s face. It’s so infectious that Len has to smile right back at him. Still, nothing beats seeing Barry a couple days later, holding that tiny bundle of a human being in his arms, strangely delicate and fragile for something that can scream so loud. The sight cracks something in Len’s chest, something like a shell over a vast, empty space that longs to be filled with this kind of sweet ache, and he reaches out, but ends up touching Barry’s arm instead of the child, unsure if he’s allowed quite that much intimacy. He’s been on speaking (and teasing) terms with Iris for a long time now, but there’s a definite line between making fun of someone’s attire (his parka is still fashionable, thank you very much) and letting that someone hold your son.

“His name’s Michael,” Barry says, and looks at Len: up close, his eyes still have that strange shiny quality, like holding a baby makes him constantly on the verge of tears. Or maybe he just hasn’t slept properly in a few nights, Len’s not sure: the sight still takes his breath away, along with his words. “You know… After Mick.”

Len’s throat goes all tight, just like his heart, and he wishes there was something he could say that would encompass the storm of opposing emotions in his heart, gratitude, relief, surprise, old but still vivid pain. He ends up saying nothing, but judging by the small smile tucked in the corner of Barry’s mouth, he doesn’t have to.

…

It’s April 25th, again. The street is deserted at four in the morning and Len’s knees have begun to ache quite badly about an hour ago, but he doesn’t feel like breaking his pathetic, masochistic tradition just yet. He’s sixty-seven years old, and he doesn’t know how many times he’ll be able to come down here for the annual reopening and salting of his own wounds, but he’s unable to resist while he can do this without requiring assistance.

He doesn’t even know why he does it. It’s not like it’s ever brought him closure, in the decade and a half that he’s been coming here, staring at the empty air that once swallowed up the man Len can’t forget. Ironic, really: he’s been out of the whole superpower-slash-timetravel business for a few years and his days are filled with reading (when his eyes don’t hurt) and listening to the radio, taking slow, shuffling walks through the park and generally feeling eighty, to the point where every adventure in his life feels like a distant dream – everything except the man who vanished fifteen years ago without a trace. Fifteen years, and Len’s most vivid memories still stare at him through his dreams with hazel eyes; fifteen years and nothing he’s done after Barry disappeared, none of the people he’s met, protected, fought with or seen die, none of them have ever felt quite as real to Len as the man who hasn’t been here for so long.

The years spent on Hunter’s team definitely did not make him age well, or easy, but he still can’t bring himself to regret any of it. It’s definitely true, what they say about regretting the things one didn’t do: he never found the courage, or the time, or the right occasion to tell Barry how he felt. Maybe he himself didn’t even know, until it was too late: but Len knows that if someone came and asked him about his biggest regret on his dying day, he’s certain what he would say.

He watches the street, but there’s nothing to see: the commemorative festivities won’t happen until much later in the day. Nobody seems to care about the exact time when it happened, and so, in the wee hours of the morning, one old man is left alone with his unspoken grief.

There’s a flash of light and Len instinctively squints away, stepping to the curb to avoid the passing car. He attributes it to his age that it takes him a moment to realize there’s no sound of an approaching vehicle, and the light has died down. Only the street’s not so silent anymore – Len blinks at the sound of coughing and feet shuffling against the concrete, his hearing being probably the only sense that has not dulled in the passing years.

But even if he were half-blind, he would have recognized the figure that’s staggering in the middle of the road, the crimson color burning into Len’s retinas with the intensity of all his long-lost hopes. He takes a tentative step forward, stumbles, catches himself on a nearby lamp-post: the man, _the Flash_ , _Barry_ , looks up and fixes his confused gaze on Len.

“Hey – where’s everybody? Where’s the Reverse-Flash? I have to-“

“Gone,” Len croaks, his throat parched and constricted as he wonders if he’s finally gone mad, if he’s seeing things solely because he wishes to see them so, so badly. Barry scowls – Len could never forget the slightest shifts in his expressions, even from under the red cowl – and then pushes his mask off his face, looking around the deserted street with obvious confusion.

  
“What do you mean, gone? Just like that? I mean I don’t know what happened, it was weird for a second, but-“

  
“ _You_ were gone,” Len clarifies and pushes forward, one step, then another, and the light of the streetlamp must hit his face then because Barry’s hazel eyes widen with recognition.

“…Len?!”

He doesn’t look a day older than when Len saw him last, early thirties, vibrant and beautiful. Whatever happened to him that made him disappear for fifteen years apparently had no impact on him, so it must be quite a shock to see Len, with the deep lines etched into his face and hair more white than grey, shoulders and back slightly hunched with the passing years.

  
“What happened?” Barry demands and it’s stupid how relieved Len feels when the kid closes the distance and Len doesn’t have to walk all the way to him. His knees are shaking, more shock than arthritis for now, and he’s remembering the day of Barry’s thirtieth birthday, when the guy asked him not to call him a kid anymore. Len thinks he’s earned that privilege back, in the past decade and a half, but he can’t really bring himself to speak. When Barry reaches out to catch his elbow, Len simply collapses against him, hands clawing at the suit that’s impossible to grip, and buries his wrinkled face in the smooth material, right above Barry’s heart.

It strikes him how much time he lost, waiting for the right moment; that ship has sailed now, with him so old and Barry just returned to life, even though he doesn’t know he’s been missing. But a part of Len, underneath all that scratchy regret, just feels relieved that he’s alive and well, that Len won’t have to wonder for the rest of his life what happened to him.

And if he cries until his head hurts, clinging to Barry in a deserted street, with gloved red fingers in his white hair, neither of them speaks a word of it again.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on my [tumblr](http://pheuthe.tumblr.com/) \- feel free to come talk to me or prompt me (or anything, really) :)


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